Before and After
by TrueAwesomeSauce
Summary: In the aftermath of any major event, life starts to fall into 'Before' and 'After.' When the event is truly life-changing, those can be hard to reconcile, even when it's just about the little things.    Some little things after Nero, for Uhura and Spock
1. Tea

Before and After

_Note: _These stories intertwine, somewhat, with Comforts of Home, if you need a pleasant change of pace.

_Disclaimer_: Standard ones apply.

_Theris_

Nyota would go to his apartment, and Spock would make her tea.

She thinks of it as 'Before,' and remembers:

In his apartment, he keeps several that she likes; he calls them 'Terran' and the term makes her smile. He gravely hears her desires, and reaches for the pot. And as he brews it, the steam rising, she begins to recognize this small thing as a Vulcan ritual of hospitality - even, perhaps, acceptance.

She loves to hold the fine cups he keeps just for this purpose, and to take in the delicate scent before the first tiny sip.

One day she says "Surprise me," and he makes just one pot. Both of them will share his tea: The fragrant drink from his homeworld whose heady, spicy scent, through long association, has permeated his rooms - and maybe, even, his skin.

She takes one tiny sip and the pale liquid explodes in her mouth with a complexity she could not have dreamed possible. Seeing the ghost of confusion reflected in her face, he adds something to it that he takes from a very small packet: An herb to be crumbled between long pale fingertips - and even while she's thinking that she's never seen him touch, before, something she would consume - she sips – and finds the welter of flavors subdued into an understandable whole.

She sips her tea and imagines she's drinking his home, his culture, his knowledge. She sips and imagines she's drinking him.

He drinks his matter-of-factly; but enjoys it, she suspects, none the less.

She comes over on an afternoon when a package arrives from Shi'Kahr. As he moves to open it, the absurdity strikes her - She laughs and teases him: "Seriously? The fearsome Vulcan _professor_ receives care packages from his _Mom_?"

And Spock just nods, with his usual solemnity, and opens it with deliberate hands. He lifts out the contents: A hand-woven something, a note, a real book, a bottle of dark liquid, a folded tied packet, some smaller ones.

She boldly declares her place in his life by trying on the scarf, picking up the book, swirling the ink; and he watches her without comment. She does not touch the note, but follows him into his kitchen, and watches him as he puts the small packets away. He lifts down the carved wooden canister which holds his tea; empties the larger packet into it. She notes that it is not refilled, and wonders at the amount his mother has sent: Just enough, it seems, to last him until next time.

Nyota marvels that she understands her son so well.

Nyota is there, too, when the next package arrives, and this time she says nothing superfluous. She follows him to the kitchen, and he empties the tea into the canister. She knows, then, that he has told his mother that Nyota shares his tea, and, perhaps, his life: She has sent twice as much as before, and a little extra. And the packet of the herb that makes it make sense is fat, as he places it on the shelf.

Nyota learns something else, then, about Vulcan acceptance, and she feels much more at ease.

After - she goes to his quarters. He is standing in still silence, but then moves to welcome her with tea. His hands reach for the carved canister, and she stops him with a touch.

"I think," she says, "Earl Grey." Her voice sounds as ordinary as she can make it.

Without comment, he lifts down a second pot, and prepares for her what she has requested.

She wonders whether he questions her attachment, in the face of this evidence of one more incontrovertible change. But she cannot bear to explain; so she curls up in his lap, inhales his scent deeply, and kisses him - though for him, this is not, perhaps, the way to show affection. "I," she says, with a single kiss, "love" kiss "everything" kiss "about you." Kiss, kiss, _kiss_. And he accepts her kisses, and her words.

But when she moves off of his lap, to drink what he has made for her, she watches him: She sees his long pale hands lift the delicate cup, she sees him breathe in the fragrance. She sees his lashes drop to his cheeks as his eyes close – and he takes one tiny sip.

She watches him, and marvels, once more, at Vulcan acceptance. But she knows that there is still one lesson yet to come, and she dreads it - just as she dreads the silence every time his voice will not say the name of the place of his birth.

Nyota watches the level go down in the canister, and wonders what will happen after.


	2. Butterflies

_Butterflies_

When Spock was a very small child, he visited Earth. He stood in a Costa Rican rainforest, and saw butterflies rising from the surrounding walls of green. He had never seen one before, but he quickly identified _Morpho peleides_: It was almost too easy. He recognized this creature from his studies of Earth History: Earth had certainly had its struggles with responsible resource management. The Blue Morpho had nearly gone to its extinction, sacrificed to Man's idle curiosity, and his arrogant assumption of superiority in the face of other beings.

The creature, of piercing blue, edged with black, was larger than the span of his two hands. He followed it with his eyes as it flew from leaf to leaf harmlessly fulfilling its natural function. He held himself very still, and kept his thoughts gentle, not wishing to offend with his own curiosity. He was pleased that no one here would choose to damage it.

Finally, it ascended to be with its fellows in the heat above the treeline. He turned and watched it rising, free, into the sky.

Before he reached his twentieth birthday, Spock was invited to speak at an esteemed Earth university. When the invitation first arrived, he was predisposed to decline: He would have preferred to stay at the Academy and continue his experiments. But he then reconsidered: This was knowledge he possessed, and which others desired. He was in a unique position to fulfill the request – and, in fact, had nothing pressing. He thought of his father's efforts; and wrote his acceptance.

Spock stood at the front of the Lecture Hall, and was grateful for his parentage. There were so many eyes, and he could feel their weight upon him – and, washing over him, a gentle wave of curiosity and anticipation directed toward him by so many minds. He shielded himself from the unintended intrusion, and noted, with interest, the effect.

As he surveyed the faces, he was mildly surprised by the sheer variety, not just in type, but in age. It was evident that his visit was not just of interest to the students in this field of study, but also to other, older, people who came for the purpose of hearing him.

He was also satisfied, then, that his genetic heritage was as it was: It did not immediately reveal his youth.

As he spoke, he recognized the pleasure that these people took in his words, and he thought it intriguing that such a simple thing as sharing information should be a source of pleasure to so many humans. He took note, and decided to accept such invitations in the future.

When the lecture was over, there was a brief reception. Spock kept his hands behind his back: There were many who wished to speak with him further, and shake his hand. He drank the mild Terran tea, and was appreciative of its difference to that of his homeworld.

Then his local guide, a noted professor, gathered him up and carried him off triumphantly.

It was immediately apparent that there was much the man wished to say to his new associate. He talked a great deal, and asked a greater number of questions.

They visited the Museum of Natural History, where the professor had arranged for a special viewing of some of the original parts of the collection. Spock stood in the midst of the cases of entomological specimens, and turned slowly. He understood the scientific value of the exhibits, and appreciated the efforts of those early scientists: Many of these lepidopterous insects were known only from the single sample contained in this room, their kind having disappeared long before the discovery of less intrusive methods of investigation. But he looked at row upon row of bright-winged creatures displayed floating above a dusky velvet ground - each small body transfixed with a large pin thrust through its thorax – and he felt vaguely uneasy.

That evening he was taken to a local pub, where he met several of the professor's colleagues. The men drank their lager or stout, and talked with the visitor about their fields of research, and the academic life at the University. Spock understood, now, the draw such a life had had for his mother, and he knew that their interest in his work was genuine.

As they relaxed in the comfort of their customary environment, these men forgot themselves sometimes, and made physical contact with his person. He understood that it was not intentional, and knew that they simply wished for him to feel included, and welcome.

Toward the end of the evening, the men began a game of darts. Watching them, Spock suspected that their performance was impaired by varying stages of intoxication, but he watched with some attention as the game progressed.

It had been a long day.

When they insisted he join them, Spock refused as diplomatically as he could.

He would not take pleasure in the activity: It was too simple for him to estimate the weight of each projectile and detect the imperfections in its fletch. He was an expert at tactics and could calculate trajectories with a mind already bent to more pressing problems. He was also well versed in the attributes and capabilities of his own body: Accuracy of aim and application of propulsive force presented no challenge.

When it became apparent that no polite protestations would be effective, he was resigned. Determined to be the center of attention for as brief a time as possible, he stood and went to the designated position. He threw the darts one after another, and in the falling silence, he clearly heard the solid 'thunk' of the points penetrating the surface of the board. The sound made him vaguely uneasy.

Spock was very precise.

The results of his throws were unsurprising.

As he collected the darts and returned to his seat, he could feel the cold eyes of the patrons upon him, and hear the whispers.

He could feel the discomfort of the professor and his companions.

Spock was a stranger among them. He left as soon as he decently could. He was sure they did not mind.

After - As he moves about the ship, he feels penetrating eyes following him. If he relaxes his vigilance, he feels the pinpricks of intrusive inquisitiveness.

After - When he goes out among strangers, they turn to watch him. With acute curiosity, they point him out. He is aware that he is on display.

After - He tries to move gently around those who suffered lost loved ones in the skies over his homeworld. Their glances are sharp; they murmur resentfully to each other about his rudeness, his coldness, and his smug superiority - and Spock is reminded of darts.

After, he prepares for his meeting with Starfleet Command. He dresses with his usual deliberation. Though he knows it to be satisfactory, he checks his appearance; and recognizes, in that uneasy action, symptoms of fatigue. As he leaves his quarters, he catches a last glimpse in the mirror: His bright blue uniform edged with black. Walking to the Transporter Chamber, he schools his face, and his thoughts. This is not the time to be thinking of _Morpho peleides_. This is no time for butterflies.


	3. Time Change

_Wak-Rubah_

The two of them, she realizes, have completely different conceptions of Time.

Before, she was as much a part of his time as anything else:

Spock knows, always, what time it is, how long something can be expected to take or has taken. He values tradition, and his memory is crystal clear, but he does not dwell in the past – his, or anyone else's. Spock experiences the Now, and looks to the future he prepares constantly to meet. He understands Time, and works within it. He will move deliberately, focused and with complete control; and sometimes, as he makes his preparations (whether to just start his day or some urgent project), she thinks of him as an arrow nocked in a bow, ready to launch, awaiting only its proper target.

Before meeting him, Nyota looked back, forward, sideways even. She thought about what-ifs and if-onlies, and would get tangled up in might-have-beens. She would lose track of time, or feel it drag; she would wonder where it had gone, even as she tried to manage it. After they got to know one another, she tried to quit wasting it, or slowly killing it: It seemed there was never quite enough time.

Then, she could sit with him and sense his peace; she was learning to try to ignore the maybes.

Before, he said once, that he would show her, someday, the lands of his forefathers. And in his quiet words, she heard a promise. Spock intended to take her to ancient lands held by his family for two millennia and more – a place so steeped in tradition and meaning - and, like everything surrounding him, so private - that even hearing of it seemed almost too intimate without the bond whose forging would be completed there.

After - It is very strange to see him uncertain about the Future – and his place in it. It is strange to be the one who knows: She will be with him, in it - and that is all.

Spock had trusted Time. He misjudged it; and he is shaken still.

After - Though the unspoken remains, she knows he thinks he is foresworn – and he no longer talks about their Future.

He holds her apart from the rest of his time. He keeps her with him, always, in the Now, and makes no promises.

After - Death has touched him. It is waiting at their shoulders still, biding its time.

There are few promises he is certain he can keep.

And Spock can never lie.


	4. Beautiful

_Beautiful_

Before – Before, he would tell her of his homeworld in his cool, level voice; and she would listen carefully and draw her own conclusions:

Spock's world is a world of beautiful things, of handmade things, of things made with thought, and care - and belief in the importance of a tradition of making beautiful things.

When others think of the inhabitants of that world, they think of impassive faces, physical power, logic seemingly cold.

But the truth, she learns, is very different. These are people of profound, hidden depth; of appreciation far richer than sheer intellectual understanding and classification of the perfect. They create things that are efficient, yes, but they have an inherent aesthetic that suggests that form must not just follow function but enhance and improve it.

In a world of limited resources, there developed the principle that it is important to not just make the thing one needs, but to make it mindfully, elegantly - to be used, to be shared, to be cared for; to last.

Vulcans, then, she discovers, are drawn to beautiful things. This inclination is deep-seated; deeper, perhaps, than a human can understand. Most will choose to keep few personal items around them, but each will be special and unique – beautiful. The beauty is often restrained, neither overblown nor self-proclaiming, but it is there waiting for the senses to call it out.

Sometimes the true beauty of an object is not obvious.

A musical instrument is made for sound. That much is obvious. But the choices made by the master during its creation, and by its owner in its care, all contribute to enhance the experience of a performance with that particular instrument.

Spock's own _ka'athira_, his Vulcan lyre, is a masterpiece from a world that made things of exquisite workmanship.

The selection of materials – the woods, blonde and red, veined with gold, glimmering with light's interplay; mahogany, rich and warm, glowing from within; and deep ebony, satin smooth, absorbing all light – reveals true artistry. The instrument's shape - form rounded to fill the space as it rests against its owner's chest; tension in the opposing curves; corners made to fill the palms and yet to allow the fingers to move freely – is a masterwork of sculpture. Even the wax used for its care – redolent, smooth; applied and polished by generations of generous and sensitive hands – sends its scent wafting as the instrument is cradled by a warm body.

The first time Uhura sees it in his apartment, she thinks, "Here is a man of unsuspected passion." It is a possession so personal that she stands mute the first time he plays for her, afraid to breathe lest she break a spell; and she cries when he offers it to her to share.

When she hesitates, he says that an instrument's purpose is to make music; that a second set of hands to play it, and of ears to hear it, would honor its purpose and that of its creator. She accepts, then, but her hands shake when she holds it.

Only Spock can coax from it the haunting harmonies of his homeworld, and Nyota sits spellbound. Hearing him play, she understands that he is worthy of such an instrument - and that, too, is beautiful.

After – yesterday, in fact, at Starbase 12 - they meet a contingent headed for the Vulcan colony. Spock enters into conversation with one of the colonists, first about archaeological artifacts, and then about music. His footsteps fall more slowly as they talk, and she recognizes the signs that his mind is truly engaged.

After – today - she notices that The Lyre is gone. In its place is a lyre.

He has said nothing. But she knows what he will say if she asks – calm and measured words about the greater good and greater benefit; of the needs of the many; of the fulfillment of intended purpose – _logical_ words that will break her heart.

Spock has already made that decision, and she can understand.

But he has already lost so much.

His Vulcan soul is logical, generous - beautiful.

And, once again, she mourns what that has cost him.


	5. Socks

_Ash'ailar_

Nyota knits him socks.

And Spock wears them when he leaves the ship.

The first pair, she made at the Academy, before:

Her very first semester, Cadet Uhura sees him walking across campus. (After, Nyota remembers: It was mid-October.) His stride is long, and his movement is purposeful. He does not appear to hurry. Having seen him once, she begins to notice him everywhere: In the library, the Mess Hall, various departments, in Assembly; crossing the quad. And then she sees how differently he moves through the halls: Just as purposeful, but more fluid, somehow - almost languid - even when he moves swiftly.

She wonders whether he is cold, outside.

As an instructor, Commander Spock is formidable. He expects nothing less than your best, but he is fair, too. His thoughts are as arrow straight as his spine; and when she sees him walking across campus, she begins to wonder where he goes, with such long determined strides.

He is almost always standing still and tall at the front of the hall when they file in for lectures. If not - if he arrives after they are seated - he paces in, places his padd on the desk, and slips out of his coat with a single seamless movement. She watches him do it, and it makes her think of dancing. He ignores the students until his coat is over the chair back and the display screens are activated. He then looks up, takes up his familiar pose, and speaks into the waiting silence.

He will hardly move; yet their eyes will be riveted to him as he stands at the front of the hall. And for that she is grateful: When the Commander moves, she finds herself studying his movement, and then she has to remember to listen, to take in his words.

And still, as Uhura watches him cross the campus - his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his wool overcoat - she thinks he must be cold.

For the first long Autumn weekend of her Senior Year, her grandmother visits. In a ritual dating back to her childhood, the two go to the yarn shop. They stand in front of the wall-cubes of wools and inhale the fragrances of all the different fibers, gazing in pleasure-filled anticipation at the colorful, ordered chaos.

This time is different, however, and her grandmother notes the difference, and wonders: Nyota does not head immediately for delicately tinted cashmere, or the bright silk blends, or even the vibrant merinos dyed with the rich colors of Earth - to handle them and sniff them in covetous delight. Instead she stands in front of the wall, her hands behind her back, her head tipped to one side, considering. She asks for assistance from the clerk, and is led to a quiet corner. These wools of natural blacks and greys and browns - deep enough to be almost black, themselves - carry a spicy, heady scent; and _Bibi_ is not surprised when Nyota picks one up and inhales that aroma, teases out one strand to wrap around her finger, and rubs the skein across the soft skin of her cheek in a subtle caress. What makes her wonder, then, is the look on Nyota's face: Her eyes have closed, just for a second - and when she has finished bonding with this sock-weight wool, she does not choose impulsively, then place her order decisively, in her usual way.

No. She lingers there, and solemnly touches every skein with the very tips of her fingers, before choosing the perfect one: One single skein seemingly indistinguishable from all its fellows.

To others, her granddaughter seems wholly pragmatic, but _Bibi _knows differently. Nyota has the generous heart of an artist. Her whole life, almost - ever since she learned how – she has knit caps and scarves and sweaters for the members of her family. She knits in every color of the rainbow (and then some), and every fiber available - each chosen on impulse, with the beloved one held in her mind's eye. She has astonishingly accurate intuition…

This girl – her dear sweet Nyota - intends to knit socks in fine black Vulcan wool?

Uhura sits in his office, as the days grow shorter. He has been called to a meeting; and she waits for him to return, to tell her what he needs for her to do next. She has already finished the grading, and her own work, as well; and she pulls from her bag the project she works on, when she wants to think. Knit two, purl two: This knitting is rhythmic – meditative – and she can let her mind roam. Or focus her thoughts on the recipient: This is what she does, now, deliberately…

His meeting drags on, and she suspects that he will, once again, be sent on some mysterious errand, presumably for Starfleet. He goes, and returns – always with no comment. As his aide, she assists the pro tem replacements, and feels a little sorry for them: The students may not much like Commander Spock, but he is the best; and the upper division students have little patience, now, for anything – any _one_ - less.

So he goes, and returns – and the students are relieved. To them he is always just the same - an upright distant figure with cool clarity of thought. But Uhura notices when he seems weary; when he limps – just a little; when it seems he is too cold.

This evening, he comes into the office, and slips out of his coat. He hangs it on the waiting hook, places his padd on the desk, stands still, a moment, before moving to his chair. He sits, and shifts the padd in front of him. He does not turn it on, however, but folds his hands on it; and he sits still, a moment, too, before glancing over at her.

Their eyes meet.

Her hands are busy, and her eyes, he thinks, were following him idly. He is not discomfited, and he finds himself moved to speak. "I will be gone for a few days," he says.

And she nods, her eyes on her knitting.

The silence, then, is companionable.

She is nearing the end of her wool; she had weighed it and split the ball evenly. Now she pulls from her bag the first sock she made of the pair, to compare them: The two will be a perfect match.

She looks at Commander Spock, so cool in the warmth of his office. He is finishing the last few tasks that should not be left for his return.

She threads a tapestry needle, begins her sock's bind-off. She finishes this sock as neatly - as perfectly - as she can: She weaves the ends in carefully, so they will lie smoothly against the skin and never come undone.

She does the same for its mate.

When the socks are completed, she glances at him again: He is reading now, and she thinks maybe he is staying just to keep her company.

She won't take these socks home to wash and block into perfect form. They will not be presented in some awkward moment of undue ceremony. There is no time for that.

She puts her needles and scissors back in her bag. She stands; gathers her things, and herself, and – socks in hand – moves toward his desk.

He is looking at her, now, intently, his full attention focused upon her face. He rises to his feet as she stops across from him.

Her hands reach out, without clear direction from her brain, and carefully lay the socks on the desk in front of him. She raises her eyes to his; and she realizes she has, for once, not planned what she should say to this man. "To keep you warm" seems much too personal. The silence extends. She touches the socks with one finger, maybe pushes them toward him, just the tiniest bit.

His eyes drop from hers, and she is able to form words. "For luck," she says.

Two fingers brush the sock, traveling over the surface in the most delicate of touches; and, from those fingers so very close to hers, she feels surprising heat. He does not say anything about the illogic of her words, or the inappropriateness of the gift - and that surprises her, a little, too. He is nodding, and when his eyes lift to hers, warm, she is surprised, again.

"Thank you, Nyota," he says; and, illogically, she feels like she has never heard her name pronounced properly before.

After – At the end of the longest day of her life, she goes to his quarters. Oh, God, is she weary and she can hardly breathe. But he has come back – he did return – and she must go to him.

Ignoring the chime, she knocks on the door, and it opens – Spock has been expecting her, it seems.

He is standing still and silent, and she comes toward him, wraps her arms around him, holds him as tight as she can. It takes a moment, then he responds, touching her gently. She whispers to him words of comfort that she says not because she thinks that they will help, but because she needs to say them.

He hears her words, accepts her need; and is silent.

He has always been silent – but his silence is now the size of a planet.

After, she draws him to his bed; and he follows, his movements graceful as ever, but absent. He sits on the edge of the bed, and complies when she wants to undress him.

She kneels, and undoes his boots. He watches her actions, and says nothing.

She slips off first one, then the other. She stands, and goes to place them on the floor in his closet.

When she returns, he has not moved. He is looking at his feet: They are wrapped in hand-knit socks of fine black Vulcan wool.


	6. Before

_Before_

Before, Spock would hardly talk about himself. He'd tell about things, instead:

Cadet Uhura starts lingering after class, waiting for Commander Spock to be finished with his work. The professor lectures from memory, rarely using notes; but he sometimes has a padd driving information relays to the computer and display screens. He will gather the padd and stylus, shut down the equipment, douse the lights. He will pace slowly from the Lecture Hall, with his hands behind his back. His fingers are long, and so strong that he holds the display padd in his fingertips and does not need to alter his habitual posture.

They will walk from Lecture Hall to Lab – the Cadet will clutch her class materials to her chest; and have to remind herself to quit staring at his profile, and to look where she is going.

If she daydreams too much, she will fall behind; then have to hurry to catch up, doing her best to still look dignified.

Cadet Uhura will ask Commander Spock questions about Vulcan.

His answers will be short, and very factual.

Still, she learns about mean temperature, population density, geology.

She asks him questions about his life there – about himself.

His eyes slide toward her, then back to the front. His lips close, and he says nothing.

And so, she doesn't ask such questions. (She thinks she should make a list of 'Things not to ask the Commander about'.)

Uhura curls up in the chair in Commander Spock's office. She has completed her assigned tasks, and is using the remaining time to do her own work. She scrolls idly through the pages, making note of things to ask him when he has finished writing remarks on student essays.

She has learned to sit as still as she can, for the most part. Her impulsive presence no longer seems to engender awkward silences - It is not for his benefit, really, that she imitates his serenity.

She asks him questions about his homeworld; and there are questions he will not even acknowledge. She labels these 'Things not to make him talk about'.

But he talks about the cities and the landscape, weather patterns, technology.

She gently asks him about his life there, her eyes on his face; and he pauses to consider. He tells her about architecture and food. He tells her some of the differences between their worlds.

Uhura asks Spock what his life was like before - before she knew him, before he came to the Academy. She sits sideways at the end of the couch in his apartment, facing him, her feet tucked under his thigh. She watches his face as he talks, listens to the nuances in his careful voice. She is learning to read what he's thinking, behind the words he's speaking.

He still will not talk about some things. She accepts that, and lets it go. There are some things she just won't ask.

She listens intently, patiently, and Spock will talk. He will talk about his life before.

He tells her about music and language, about his research and studies, his education.

He tells her about his city, family activities, their garden.

He tells her about his home, his people, forays into the desert.

After – It really shouldn't be much different: Spock has rarely talked about himself. And this is only one thing.

Only one more subject has been added to her list of 'Things not to ask about' - of 'Things not to make him talk about.'

She has a new list, she realizes, of 'Things not to make him think about.'

Nyota can no longer ask Spock about Before.


	7. Skin

_Wadi_

After, she doesn't feel that she should tell him that she loves his skin.

But she does.

She really does, and it was one of the first things she noticed, Before:

The Commander stands at the front of the Hall, his hands behind his back.

He waits, unmoving, for the new students to file into the room, wrestle their materials into the rows, jostle for favourite seats, make unnecessary comments, plop into their chairs, settle in, and look up toward the front of the room to where their professor waits patiently, as still as a statue.

His uniform is dark, his hair is dark - his brows, his eyes - all dark. The screens behind him are all turned off: Dark. Against all of the darkness, his skin seems to glow in its cool pallor; and though in the stillness it seems almost uncanny, it is beautiful too.

Then he starts to move, and to speak; and his skin is forgotten in the economy of his movement, the timbre of his voice, the patterns of his speech - the complexity of his thought.

At the end of class, Cadet Uhura goes up to tentatively ask him a question. She is the only one who lingers after the lecture has ended, and he ignores her as she approaches so hesitantly. He is standing behind the desk, and as she gets closer, she can see the faintest touches of color in his cheeks, the pale pink of his lips, the shadow of whiskers showing through the pallor - individual black lashes startlingly dark as he looks down at his padd. His hand reaches for the padd, two fingers touch the display, turn it off – and against the dark background of the desk, and the dark frame of his sleeve, his hand glows with the faintest hint of cool green. His hands are beautiful – long, slender, graceful – pale and perfect.

She can see hair, fine and black, across their backs.

He suddenly seems very, very male; and not much like a statue at all.

She wrenches her gaze away and in that wild second it meets his own. His eyes are brown, curious, alive. They are anything but cool and pale, against that cool pale perfect skin.

His hands go behind his back once more, and he straightens to listen to her.

Looking into his eyes, she is afraid to speak, afraid that if she opens her lips she will tell him that she thinks he is beautiful.

Eleven weeks later, Commander Spock returns from a sudden absence – his second this semester. When he has finished his lecture, and the other students have filed out, she goes up to tell him that the class has missed him. She really means that _she_ missed him – and she hopes he doesn't know that that is what she means.

He reaches for his padd, and she sees there is a vivid green line – a healing injury, a scar - across the back of his hand. Without thinking, she reaches to touch it - and stops herself in time. She hopes he doesn't notice. When she glances at his face, their eyes meet; and she is the first to look away.

She hopes it heals well, that injury, leaving behind nothing to mark him.

Commander Spock has been gone, again, with a sudden silent absence; and returns to the classroom, and his office, with no comment at all. He says that he has heard how well she helped his pro tem replacement, and he commends her efforts as his aide.

At the end of office hours, they have a quiet meal in the Mess hall, and Uhura tells him all the things that happened in the few days he was gone.

She tries not to notice the green lines marring his hands.

His manner is as grave and dignified as ever; but watching his face, she sees the skin is tight - just the tiniest bit tight - around his eyes and mouth.

He suddenly seems weary.

When he leaves the office that evening, she drifts along in his wake; and he says nothing, even as they stand at the door to his apartment.

He stands aside to let her precede him, and she stops just inside the door. He comes in, turns on a light, puts down his padd. He indicates the table, and when she puts down her things, he moves behind her to take her coat.

Uhura can feel the brush of his hand at her collar, feel the heat rising from his skin. She stands absolutely still; afraid to move, lest she waken; afraid to speak, lest she tell him - Oh, so many things she really shouldn't say.

She picks up her padd and her huge ungainly bag, and holds them, undecided. When he shrugs out of his coat, she starts, and turns the motion into movement toward the couch. She sits to one end, and drops her bag heavily on the floor at her feet.

Spock is watching as she curls her legs under her, her padd in her lap.

Their eyes meet, and she watches him, then, as he moves toward her. He turns on the lights that will make their work easier. He asks whether there is anything else she needs, and when she says 'no,' he nods, then lowers himself onto the far end of the couch. His posture is as straight as always; and he does not look at her, or even speak, as he turns on his display padd.

They work in silence for an hour or more.

She has gradually turned at the end of the couch, so that she is facing him, her back against the arm. She glances up from her padd, and finds herself staring at his profile. She sees that there is a tiny scar under his right eyebrow that she hadn't noticed before, and one above his cheekbone. She wonders how he got them, how long ago, whether they hurt, how badly they bled. Though small, the one looks deep, and she frowns in sudden sympathy.

Spock's eyes lift from his padd; he turns his head, and meets her gaze. This time she doesn't glance away.

When the silence lasts too long, and she realizes she should – she must – stop looking into his eyes, she smiles. "I am going to get some water, okay?" she asks. He nods, and starts to rise from the couch, but she stops him. "No, I'll get it."

She goes into his little kitchen, and is about to start opening cabinets, when she pauses to think. There is a kettle, the sink, a stove, the refrigerator. Logically, the glasses would be – are, naturally – kept here.

He doesn't have ice.

She returns to the couch; and he has put aside his padd, and is flexing his fingers.

She curls up in her corner, and sips, watching him.

He glances at her; his hands still. But, again, he makes no comment. He picks up his padd, and resumes his work.

Gazing at him, she sips again. She wonders why he is always so polite: A human male this distinguished would do just as he liked.

A human male she liked this much would be rude to her, she thinks. A human male this beautiful would be arrogant and spoiled.

She sets aside her water, and picks up her padd.

They work in companionable silence for a while longer. What she is doing is interesting, and she loses track of the time. Her attention is wrenched from her work by his subtle movement at the other end of the couch. He has set aside his padd again, and is stretching his hands.

She thinks maybe he is in pain.

He quietly takes a blocky white bar of what looks like soap from a small ceramic dish on the table nearby, and draws it across the vivid marks on his skin. The bar leaves a trace of glistening oil behind, and she realizes it must be a salve. There is a spicy fragrance in the air - mysterious, redolent, and masculine.

She finds herself looking at his hands – staring, really – as he rubs in the salve; and though he must notice, he says nothing.

She asks him what it is, and he responds with a phrase in Vulcan. He repeats it, until she can say it clearly, '_elmuvak na'neshlar t'vik-morsu._' "It is a balm," he says, then, "'for warriors', to heal wounds and broken skin." And the way he says it, so quietly, makes her understand that she has glimpsed something more than an aromatic white bar – something ancient, kept alive.

She finds herself kneeling on the couch, reaching toward him - and she does not stop her fingers, this time. She touches the darkest, brightest green line gently. His skin is hot, the fine black hair soft, the scar slightly raised and a little rough.

He goes very still; he does not withdraw from her touch.

"I hope it heals well," she says - and now she is looking deep into his eyes, from as close as she's ever been to him; she is breathing in that mysterious spicy scent.

Yet, he says nothing. When she moves her hand away, he watches it go.

After – oh, Lord, after – She loves his skin. She has explored it and claimed it; touched it and marked it – but always so it will heal.

When he comes home bone-weary – a too-frequent condition he'll never admit - she rubs his skin intently with fragrant oils.

And sometimes, she does that just because she wants to – and Spock, as usual, is very accepting.

But when he comes home injured – and that is a condition that happens too often, too – she rubs his skin gently with fragrant oils. And then, it is different. She has tried to reproduce the healing unguents of Vulcan; she has, as best she can. But it isn't the same. And she tries not to notice the scars scattered over his skin, but they are there. And it seems, sometimes, that there are more, every day.

She rubs his skin, and thinks it is beautiful, still.

Tonight he has come home with cuts across his hands, his arms; deep across his torso, his hip, his thigh. There is a gash on his cheek. He comes in and stands so still – He already knows what she will say, and so does she.

And so she says nothing. She goes to him, wraps her arms around him, tries not to cry. She touches his face, his neck, his hands, careful not to hurt.

She draws him to the bed, helps him take off his shirt. He sits on the edge, and she hands him the bar – the sliver, now – of _na'nesh_, and he rubs it, carefully, just on the pads of his fingertips. And she knows why he does it that way: Flawless skin on his fingers is important to his work. Anywhere else is not.

She takes the _na'nesh_ from him, and sets it aside. She helps him undress the rest of the way; supports him, as he eases himself back onto the bed. Always, he is silent, and his face does not reveal the pain that she knows he must be feeling.

She takes the oil she has made, warms it in her hands and rubs his skin. He says nothing, and she pours her love for him into what she is doing.

He watches her face, as she touches him; and moves when he must.

She eases off the bandages, and traces small gentle circles over the torn edges of skin held together with glue. She thinks healing thoughts for him, and tries to forget her fear.

And when she has finished, she looks into his eyes. Saying nothing, she takes the remaining precious sliver of _na'nesh_, and runs the corner along the gash on his cheek.

As she rubs it in gently, tenderly, she breathes in his scent - cherishing his beauty, and the beauty of his skin.

A single exhale escapes him, as pale lids drop at last: Spock closes his eyes.


	8. Vulcan

_Vulcan_

Commander Spock says 'Vulcan' in his cool, level voice. And really, it didn't sound much different Before:

He stands so straight as he speaks to the class, his posture so perfect, always. And you'd think, as he talks in that dispassionate tone, that his lectures would be boring and dry.

But they're not. Not at all.

Commander Spock gives the Federation's name for his homeworld no more emphasis than that of the other member and independent planets, and he manages to sound as though he honors the unique qualities possessed by each. He has a comprehension and understanding that convinces you that it's all interconnected.

Cadet Uhura finds it fascinating.

Walking from class to the lab, or to his office, Cadet Uhura will ask Commander Spock questions about his homeworld, about Vulcan.

His answers will be short, and very factual.

Still, she learns about mean temperature, population density, food production.

With his arms around her, in the privacy of his apartment, Nyota asks Spock about his homeworld. Vulcan runs through his veins. She's curled in his lap, with her head on his chest; she can feel it rise and fall with his breathing, hear his voice rumble within. She listens to the nuances of intonation. She hears the things he doesn't say.

He tells her about Shi'Kahr, the city of his birth: The greatest of Vulcan cities, home to artists and artisans, scientists and philosophers. He says the name, and she hears the sum of Vulcan knowledge and culture, preserved for generations to come. She hears his own part in it.

He tells her about Na'nam-Shi'al, the province, home to Shi'Kahr and Mt. Seleya, the location of his ancestral lands and the resting place of Surak. In the depths of his voice she hears enduring echoes of ancient thought and passion.

He tells her about his homeworld: '_T'Khasi,_' he says, and she hears in his fluid voice the unceasing call of a wild place, an untamed place of shifting red sands and jutting promontories, a place of dangerous beauty and mystery.

After - He says 'Vulcan' in his cool, level voice. And to everyone who hears him – everyone except Nyota – it doesn't sound any different than before. He says the word in his Vulcan voice, and it's only a word - the one usually written '_vuhlkansu_': It's an adjective, never more.

After – 408 days after – she waits for him in his quarters.

It has been a long, long time, and a long, long day, and she can wait no longer.

He comes in, the door closes; he pauses. She knows he senses something in the hot, dry, scented air, and she wonders if he understands it is Human anxiousness, misery - despair, even.

He waits for her in still silence; and she goes to him, wrapping her arms around him, leaning into him. She pulls away and touches his face, his neck; he touches the back of her hand.

His face is impassive: Still he waits.

It has been 408 days – a full year. Surely a full year is enough?

She looks into his waiting eyes and almost can't form the question that she knows will destroy this hard-won peace. But her need is great. She looks into his eyes and asks him gently, "Spock - my dearest love – where were you born?"

He closes his eyes for a full second, two.

He draws breath, unmoving, and looks at her now with empty eyes. "I was born in the capitol city of a planet now gone," he answers in a voice just as empty, as sterile and cold.

"You have to tell me," she says - she begs - "Please, beloved, say the words."

"No," he says.

In his face, in his voice, is nothing. Nothing. In his eyes? Nothing, nothing.

"Those words have no meaning now," he says. "They are mere placeholders for a footnote in history." Touching his face, his hand on hers, she feels no anger leaching through his skin, she feels no righteous indignation. She feels, coming from him, nothing – nothing at all.

After a moment he nods. Her hand drops away, and his hand from hers. He turns and goes - headed, no doubt, back to the Bridge, or the seclusion of the labs.

She knows he will return when it is time for her to sleep. He will gather her in his arms and keep her with him: She needs that, and he knows it. But tonight - this solitary night - he will hold her in silence, and say nothing.

"I need to hear that name," she whispers, the words hurtling grimly toward the withdrawing back with its stiff, straight, perfect posture.

Words fall short.

After the door closes behind him, she is silent a moment longer, before names too long unsaid burst from a human heart with an all-too-human voice: "_Shi'Kahr - Na'Nam-Shi'al_ - " She cries on a note of anguish. Her ears, alone, will hear, "_T'Khasi_. Vulcan."


	9. Blood

_Before and After _

_Blood_

_Note: _This one is a little different: Perforce, it is all 'After' – But I hope you'll agree it fits, nonetheless.

_Blood_

He has never really considered blood, before.

To him, blood is a simple substance – like tissue or bone or skin. Something to protect, yes – like air, or water – to preserve, like life itself. But blood is nothing special.

Blood has never been a… problem.

His own blood is nothing special. It just is – like his eyes, his hearing, his sense of smell. The sight of it has never frightened him. He does not find it disturbing. The sight of blood is a side effect of physical damage only. Damage can be assessed, then repaired – or not.

But something about this is different.

It is not the odor, though that is different: The heavy pungent scent of iron fills his nostrils, so very different than the rich clean tang of copper he knows well – but that is not it.

It is not the color, smeared on his hands - staining his skin, his hair, his clothing – gradually darkening from vibrant crimson to a black-edged russet red-brown: The color, truth be told, he has always associated with his mother's eyes, and - even more so, perhaps - his own.

No, not the color.

There are sounds associated with blood, of course. His own heartbeat is steady, and quick - the blood courses ceaselessly in his veins with a constant susurration. Those of his crewmates beat more slowly; they alter by mood or action – and he hears them slowing, sometimes, with a lagging double-beat. The fluent blood, then, pumps haltingly through arteries – and damaged tissue: Thick, almost viscous – emerging in gouts and spurts as though afraid of the air.

Afraid.

He tightens his fingers gently around Nyota's, and waits for hers to respond. They do, but faintly: Her mind cannot escape upward to him through the drugged stupor induced upon her when he carried her into this place. It is quieter, now, in the _Enterprise_ Medical Facility, after the storm of purposeful activity: The voices are hushed, movements unhurried, staff faces masks of professional calm. But he could smell their fear, before, at the sight of his burden; see the excitement – the fear – in their eyes. He could hear the tremors in their voices – the speeding of their heartbeats, and the racing of their blood.

Iron, it seemed, called to iron – and the metallic noises of the Medical Bay increased as they wheeled her away, and prepared.

Yes, they had been afraid.

She had been terrified. Her eyes had opened, widened, as he held her, at the sight of her blood on his skin - as her senses caught the rich sharp metallic scent - as the first shards of pain slid in through and around the initial numbness of her shock. They moved to take her from him, and her eyes - wide and searching - found and gripped him with all of the strength her broken body did not possess. Her voice had been almost silenced with weakness, with fear - and he heard it, yet: A whimper - a gasp - his name on her lips.

They had been frightened, when they took her from him - a fear of the unknown, he thought perhaps it was - as they faced what must be done. Doubt and fear hung acrid in the air.

Fear of the unknown, perhaps, when they brought her back, as well – but that was very different, too: A very simple fear… because he is different, and waiting. They could not understand why he stayed.

Behind the enshrouding curtains, he stands beside her bed – and breathes.

He closes his eyes, and lets the tiniest wisp of his consciousness go seeking… He senses – feels - a fluttering warmth as faint as the rise and fall of her breast as she breathes, as almost-nothing as the motion of the slender fingers enfolded within his shielding grasp – but a faint almost-nothing is enough. He sends to her his own serenity - gently, gently - and feels her mental sigh.

Nyota is afraid no longer: He will never lie to her. She knows it. And his serenity is assurance against this present iron-scented stupor-draped uncertainty.

McCoy comes to him there, sends him away at last with reassurances and promises, worried that he might attract unwelcome attention – worried, perhaps, for his health, his peace of mind; though truly, the doctor need not worry about these last. He kneels in meditation:

He is Vulcan. He denies apprehension.

He is Vulcan. He feels no fear.

But, after - when the night grows late, and silence surrounds him - his mind turns, unbidden, to thoughts of the future. He remembers their eyes, their heartbeats, the inevitable oxidation of bright crimson to dull, flat reddish brown - and something for Spock is different.

In his mind, in his heart, it is different, heavy, down to his very blood.

This iron weight is new.

After, he wonders if this is a problem… if this could be called 'dread.'


	10. Pain

_Pain_

Before, she believes she knows what pain is.

She has been injured; she has lost pets. She has parted from a boy she thought her 'one true love'.

She has mourned, and wallowed in her misery.

She lost a grandparent; then, suddenly, a friend. She thought then that her pain was the only pain there was – the most real, the most intense that there has ever been. She thought that no one could ever suffer as she did.

Before, she believes she knows what pain is.

She believes she's lived it.

After, she finds out how very wrong she has been. She has loved in loss, in grief, in pain. But pain is even worse – infinitely worse, she discovers - when you aren't the one feeling it.

Spock says nothing, and she can see him thinking through the pain, walking through the pain, breathing through it – living.

He says nothing; and she wonders whether that means the pain is less – or more.

She wonders whether that _makes_ the pain less, or more. Even thinking about his pain is almost too painful to bear; and she finds herself weeping, when he so clearly will not.

She reaches for him, touches him - and sees the slow blink before his eyes slide away. She curses his culture for denying him tools to deal with this in a way she can understand.

He reports to the Bridge, and sits still, a moment, before raising his hands to work. She praises his culture for giving him the tools he needs to breathe - and go on breathing.

Spock lives - and she contemplates what he needs, in his pain… But in her heart, she knows.

The one thing he really needs is _every_thing: It's the very thing he's lost.


	11. His

_T'Nash-veh_

He is working at his desk, in the quarters that they have gradually come to share. Yet, she thinks, it's still 'his' desk - 'his' quarters – 'his' bed.

Spock doesn't say so, of course. He doesn't make that distinction. He never suggests that any one thing here, or anywhere, belongs to him alone.

If anything, he'll say, "Nyota, come to bed," or maybe, when she yawns one time too widely, "Time for bed?" But, mostly, he doesn't say anything.

So, she supposes that for him it's a place to share, rather than a thing to possess – the bed, the couch, these rooms.

But for Nyota, it is true: Those things are his.

Before, naturally, they had their own things.

Before, he had his office to work in - warm and spare. He had his warm, spare apartment. (The sparseness, there, was slightly more personal, with his few displayed possessions mindfully arranged. Spare. But still...)

Before, they had their own things. That part's just the same.

Before, she had the dorm room she shared with Gaila. And there, she had her own desk, her own bed, her closet.

And Gaila had hers.

In their room, Gaila's things would migrate and wander; Uhura would find ridiculously lacy stockings under her bed. And Gaila would 'borrow' Nyota's things and bury them in her own bureau or closet, until that white sweater or whatever would somehow become Orion-owned. But Gaila was generous, too, and would try to lend Nyota things that were totally inappropriate – too bright, too shiny, too tight, too sheer – yet, somehow, the things she chose were perfect for her…

Commander Spock came to the dormitory, once, when Uhura was ill, and had attended neither class nor office hours; Gaila had forgotten to relay her message. So odd, to see him – dark and tall and fiercely straight-backed – just outside the open door, as Gaila – going to the door giggling, and half-dressed – gaped at Uhura over one greening shoulder.

For that, it was almost worth it to be sick.

It _was_ worth it, to see him there, like that: She didn't know it then, right away, but that was one moment, maybe, in the start of this After.

So yes, in her dorm room, Nyota had her shelves, her bureau, her books; her own schedule, her life - her hopes for the future.

And on this ship, she has those things, too.

Her quarters are not that different from the others, she supposes. When you strip away the personal, the bones are just the same – walls, flooring, closet, desk - all just the same Starfleet ugly.

Yes, she supposes Jim's and Spock's are bigger; they get another - what? 10 square meters, maybe, and a slightly bigger bed?

But the larger quarters they have (though she avoids this thought like the plague) are hardly proportional to the greater risks they take.

'No,' she tells herself firmly, 'to the responsibility they bear.'

('Oh, yes,' she says, 'that's it.')

So Uhura's quarters are filled with her girly things, the things she keeps around her to remind her of home. On the shelf surrounding the sleeping area she has arranged her favorite books, and photos of family and friends (and if Spock is strangely absent from them, only Gaila would have noticed or known).

She moves things around to suit her mood.

She'll have the girls over, sometimes, to play cards, or to chat, or to just hang out. They'll wear their sloppiest civvies, and lounge. And here, as they talk, she'll knit things which are frivolous – bright, maybe, and just for fun. Watching her needles fly, and the object taking shape beneath them, Sarah might say, wistfully, "Lovely," - or Janice (more obviously) might reach over to touch the soft something, saying, "Ooooh, that's really pretty. What's it going to be? Will it fit me?" - and Nyota will laugh and feel right at home. She knows what it's like to long for something beautiful, feminine – new.

She has a long row of nail polish bottles, neat as little soldiers; and an open basket heaped with her brightest, most luxurious yarns. (On the shelf, in the closet, there is another – her secret stash of sent-from-home, warm, dark Vulcan wools.)

Her closet holds her favorite 'nicer' clothes, which she breaks out for shoreleave. With joyful anticipation, she'll try on several outfits - reminded of childhood 'dress-ups' - and she won't stop until she feels truly beautiful. (And her bureau is stuffed with lingerie; and much of it is lacy, or bright, or shiny, or sheer. And this, she'll wear on the ship…)

Her quarters are good for working, too - when she's doing something complicated - when she has to concentrate, or catch up. This is where she studies, and does her own research. She has her commendations prominently displayed on the wall over her desk; and when she has work to do, she sits there, and knows she has worked hard - and come so very, very far.

But now, she has finished for the day, and she has come to Spock's quarters.

He is working at his desk. She had hesitated upon entering, not wanting to interrupt him; but he nodded as she came in - before bending his head again, undisturbed, toward the report he is finishing.

Before, he had his office to work in.

(No commendations on his walls. Perhaps, light years from home, no need for such confirmation of how very far he's come…)

That office – his office - seemed, somehow, as she came to know him, just like him: Warm and spare - revealing little of the man within. He had his apartment, too - warm, and spare. The sparseness, there, was slightly more personal; and she can look around his quarters, now, and see some of the items that had surprised her then: His teapots and canister; his artwork, his books.

But his quarters have not always been like this.

For a long time After, they were just the First Officer's Quarters. They were completed with him in mind, of course, within acceptable Starfleet parameters (soundproofing, temp buffers, control speeds – all tempered to accomodate Vulcan norms); but for a long time After, they were standard Starfleet ugly - as if he weren't really here. As if he were just occupying the rooms that belonged to the First Officer – with nothing 'Spock' about them.

It was to those empty, sterile quarters - those rooms that he didn't, quite, live in - that she first came to him.

The majority of his neatly-crated belongings had been transferred from his apartment up to this ship long before the disaster, in anticipation of the sure-to-be-successful shakedown cruise. The _Enterprise_ would launch with full honors.

Instead –

No, she wasn't going to go there.

Instead… it took a long, long time for these rooms to become 'his.'

A very long time.

One day, she let herself in to find that an ancient scroll had appeared on the shelf in the primary living space. It was the work of Surak – handwritten by some ancestor in curling Vulcan script. The deliberately-formed lines were as clear and precise as the day they were written - even as the page holding them darkened, and time tried to make the age-old words blur, and fade away. She said nothing; while the scroll lay alone on the hard grey Starfleet surface, apparently untouched… until one day she came in and noticed that it seemed to have shifted, all on its own, the tiniest bit to one side.

She noticed, and still she said nothing. She didn't know it then, right away - but there was a moment when her heart whispered, with a tiny thread of hope, 'Maybe, there might be an After.'

She said nothing; and some time later, there was bottle of ink on the shelf behind his desk, then a brazier against the wall. A few jars followed, a sculpture, a book.

His things, all of them – Like his desk, his rooms, his bed.

It was to empty, sterile quarters that she first came to him After; she came to him, and she simply never left.

* * *

Shaking herself, she tears her eyes away from his silent, still working form; and moves to the galley alcove, starts water boiling to brew tea.

Steam rises, then a heady fragrance – and when it is ready, she carries tea to him: Vulcan tea – _his_ tea – and it is the first time she has made it for him without asking whether he'd like some.

He nods, as he takes it; and his eyes linger on hers for a moment, before returning to the work in front of him. He takes a sip, and puts the cup down near him. (His tea, his cup, his tray in her hands.) When she brings her cup to the desk, and sits, opposite, his hand reaches again for his cup, and he takes another sip, his eyes never leaving the page he is reading.

In his already-warm room, steam rises, then a heady fragrance, as he lifts the cup of tea. She remembers the first taste of his tea she had; and sitting across from him, she imagines that even at this distance she can detect the heat of his skin, the faint familiar fragrance it carries… She rises from the chair opposite his desk, and curls, instead, in his hand-carved Vulcan chair. 'This chair,' she thinks, then, 'was brought from his homeworld to the Academy - by a teenaged-boy embarking on an unimaginable new life.'

And she gazes at Spock, and thinks that it is surprising how much a Vulcan man can still manage to surprise her.

* * *

Later - After, after after - the tea things have been cleaned and rinsed, the small untidinesses of living are neatened, her clothes and boots have been put away. She wakens curled around-and-over him, her head on his chest, her hand pinned between them. His arm is around her; she can feel the weight of his hand on her hip, and – though she supposes it makes her sound weak – that makes her feel safer than she can possibly describe. She shifts, and frees her hand, gently tracing it across his stomach, across his ribs and the muscles dormant beneath his skin. She rests her palm there on his side, then, and tries to feel his heartbeat. She almost imagines she can…

She knows he's awake. She wants to tell him that she loves him, that he makes her feel safe, and warm - and part of her wants to begin to try to express how happy he makes her… But she doesn't want the sound of her voice to break his peaceful silence. So, she smiles, instead, and closes her eyes.

His fingers flex against her skin, pressing gently, just for an instant.

Still smiling, she urges herself to drowsy relaxation, basking in this perfect languid moment. She is just drifting off once more, when she feels him inhale, just a little deeper, and he exhales – whispers – breathing one word into the still-warm still air, "_T'nash-veh_."

'Mine.'


	12. Silent

_Silent_

She sits stiffly at the end of the couch, awaiting his return. It's been a long and difficult day – and, given the circumstances, surely every crewman aboard has to have been reminded -

The door whooshes open, and closed, admitting a brief surge of light. In the dimness after, she closes her eyes, hoping to hear a footfall, the brush of fabric, a breath. But there is only silence.

He sits slowly at the end of the couch - at the end of another long and difficult day - and nothing breaks the silence.

She opens her eyes. He says nothing. Even his profile, his brows, his lips, say nothing: They are unrevealing as he sits in silence.

But what is silence, after all?

Before, Spock was silent.

He went calmly about his day.

He paced with gentle noiselessness, efficient and firm. Each stride carried him forward with a serene and confident soundlessness, as though he wished to leave the world in peace with his passing. He would slip into a chair to eat at an instructors' table, and listen as the others – over the rattle of dishes and clanging of flatware - chatted about their students, their work, their families, their lives; then he would stroll with them back to the Lecture Halls, his head bowed a little, to catch their words above footsteps and coat sleeves and wind or rain.

He would stand with quiet dignity.

In the Lecture Hall, he would wait, motionless, while his students clattered and rustled and bumped into their seats, and dropped their book-bags with solid thumps on the floor, their chairs creaking as they settled themselves. Even there, they would greet one another and make a comment or two (but in a respectful whisper) before the absolute silence at the front of the hall was borne upon their collective consciousness, and their heads would turn one-by-one, as they stilled to listen…

Wherever he was – whatever the situation - Spock would speak in a voice no louder than it needed to be to be heard thoroughly and well by those who needed to hear, and he would say as few words as were necessary to convey his meaning.

Occasionally - as he said his few words - his tone would be light.

And in his apartment, or in his office – when it was just the two of them – they would often sit together in comfortable silence.

Before, he was silent; so this should be nothing new.

But after…

After, his silence is extreme – even for him, an anomaly. His silence is a black hole.

The turbolift deposits him on the Bridge; and she closes her eyes, sometimes, to see if she can hear… anything… as she waits for him for him to take his place, or cross behind her. Every sense she has is attuned to this man, yet there is only silence… A tiny current of air, carrying a hint of warmth, is all that tells her that he has passed.

On duty, he treads with deliberate noiselessness - purposeful and grim - going about his work with determined efficiency. The orders he gives are brief – His attention, observing, is often enough. For the rest, he moves through the ship with self-effacing soundlessness, attracting no more notice than that demanded by his presence alone.

He eats in the Officers' Mess, away from the chattering curious crew; then slips out, again, as silently as he came.

He stands with quiet dignity.

On the Bridge, he does not hesitate to speak: He is a scientist, and must impart what he knows, or has learned. But he no longer offers those words as freely as he did; he often waits for the Captain to request them. Asked a question, he answers – always answers – but only that, nothing more. His voice is low, deep.

But here, now, in his quarters, he says nothing.

Another long and difficult day - One of too many.

(Surely, she thinks, he had to have been reminded…)

They sit together in silence.

There are so many things she wants to say – Things she wants to ask him, to draw him out from within his silent shielding and to share with him his pain. There are so many things she wants to say to him… The words jumble together in her mind, and she knows she cannot say them: Even to her, as she sorts them out, they are noisy and raucous, unnecessary and loud.

Still, Spock will not speak.

So they sit together in silence.

(She's sure he must be remembering…)

He is sitting in his usual spot, at the end of the couch, in his usual upright way; and she sits stiffly at the other end, wondering what she can say – whether she'll ever find anything worthy, anything at all. After another long moment, she turns her body toward him 'til she sits as she usually does - and looks at him: Sees his profile, each black eyelash, his unmoving lips.

She starts to speak, and hesitates – a long, long pause. Slowly, silently, his head turns.

His eyes meet hers.

Spock is silent.

She gazes at him, and in his silence, she hears echoes. They flutter, and die, unable to escape the crushing well of gravity.

They sit together in a silence grown brittle; until Nyota, afraid that Spock will shatter – or that she will – reaches out and breaks it.


End file.
